


Keep It Up

by chutzpaz



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cheerleaders, Cunnilingus, F/F, First Time, Oral Sex, Rivalry, Rough Kissing, Smut, also a homophobic slur, slight mentions of an eating disorder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-22
Updated: 2014-08-22
Packaged: 2018-02-14 06:19:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2181180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chutzpaz/pseuds/chutzpaz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rival cheerleader AU— or, where the heiress to the Stark School for Young Women and the heiress to Highgarden Preparatory Academy keep fighting over petty things and everyone has enough of it so they're locked in a room overnight to sort our their differences and shenanigans occur.</p><p>For the kinkmeme prompt <a href="http://asoiafkinkmeme.livejournal.com/22142.html?thread=15517054#t15517054">(x)</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	Keep It Up

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, it's complete with the obligatory ["they stole our routine!"](http://drunkdad.tumblr.com/post/73995932658/every-cheerleading-movie-ever-they-stole-our)

Sansa Stark has been voted most spirited three years in a row, and she is _not_ going to let one tiny incident get her kicked off the cheerleading squad and make her lose her title. Sure, last year there might have been some... altercations, but that snooty Highgarden Prep bitch had called Jeyne fat, and honestly, her hair had so many split ends that Sansa was doing her a favor pulling it out. And besides, that was _once_. It was totally out of character— Sansa Stark, the princess of the Stark School for Young Women, whose face graced the inside of the lockers of at least half the boys at the neighboring School for Young Men? No way. Everyone agreed on that.

Which is why this year is going to be different, Sansa decides. She's cheer captain now, and has to set a good example. This was her year. She was going to rule the school, finally get with that hottie Joffrey from the football team, and beat the Highgarden Roses.

"Alright, girls!" she announces in the locker room as everyone finishes dressing. "We've been working on this routine for three weeks now. Let's get out there and show 'em that the Lady Wolves have a bite!" Classic line. Cheesy and totally lame, but it's met with resounding cheers nonetheless.

Sansa pastes on a smile and leads the way out of the locker room. She's gonna do fine this year for _sure._ No fighting, not even so much as an angry yell, just as long as—

Oh, no.

There she is. That bitch from Highgarden Prep— Margaery Tyrell. Looking prissy and stuck-up as always. The harsh lighting on the field makes her features stand out, makes them look more severe and formidable. Sansa feels queasy when she sees that her hair has been sheared on one side in an undercut— pulling out her hair was supposed to be a punishment, not a fashion statement! Ugh.

"You alright?" Jeyne lays a hand on Sansa's shoulder, snapping her back into reality.

"Yeah. Fine," she lies, gritting the words out through her teeth. Totally not fine, though. Not with that walking abomination sullying the field. And not when she's walking directly towards Sansa.

"Stark," Margaery drawls. "How _very_ nice to see you again."

"Tyrell," Sansa responds, voice clipped and sharp.

Margaery only smiles, looking deceptively pleasant.  "Good luck to you, too, sweetling. May the best school win." She's using that cloyingly sweet voice that makes Sansa's skin just _crawl_.

"Of course," Sansa responds in turn. "Thank you so much for your well wishes." All she wants to do, really, is pull the rest of Margaery's hair out, but she can see her father and mother from across the field, sitting in the bleachers, ever-watchful.

"C'mon, Sansa. Don't worry about her." Jeyne, ever the voice of reason, puts a hand on her shoulder and calmly steers her away. Margaery smirks as they retreat.

"Jeyne, you just don't under _stand_ ," Sansa whines at a safe distance. "The things she does to me—"

"I know, I know," Jeyne soothes. "Just ignore her for tonight. You at least owe your parents that. Don't disappoint them again."

Sansa pouts, but nods anyways.

"Besides!" Jeyne says, suddenly cheerful. "Robb might have graduated, but it's Bran's first year on varsity. Behave for his sake." Pink colors her cheeks when she mention's Bran's name, and Sansa elbows her gently in the side.

"Awh, you have a _thing_ for him, huh?" she prods.

"No!" Jeyne says, a little too quickly. "...well, alright. But I don't, like, _like_ like him."

They giggle together as they make their way back to the rest of the squad, and for a while, Margaery is forgotten.

***

Well, Margaery is forgotten about all the way until halftime rolls around. The rival school always performs first. It's just tradition. As the football team makes their way off the field, Margaery and her gaggle strut into the center. At first, Sansa watches out of the corner of her eye, determined not to give them any undue attention. But the rest of her squad is gasping and "oh my god"-ing, and Sansa can't help but turn her head—

"They stole our routine!" Myrcella shouts, and then all the girls break out into furious whispers, which soon devolve into shouts and curses.

"What are we gonna do?" Jeyne asks. The question is clearly directed to Sansa, and the other girls quiet in anticipation of her answer.

Sansa sweats. "We— uh, we—"

"Come on!"

"We..." Sansa glances around— at her squad, watching her intensely, and then at the Highgarden Prep team. Margaery is at the top, held up by two other girls, and Sansa swears that she is smirking at her. That does it. "I'll tell you what we're gonna do. We're gonna get out there and do our routine. But we'll do it a hundred times better."

***

That's what Sansa says, at least. But the truth is, they're all frazzled and disoriented and end up faltering twice.

They also lose the football game.

***

"I don't _care,_ okay? Mom and dad are busy consoling your— your boyfriend!" Sansa screams at Jeyne when she tries holding her back.

Jeyne bites her lip, but her grip on Sansa stays firm. "Don't say that!"

"If you don't let me go, I swear I'll tell everyone you have a crush on Bran."

"You wouldn't dare, oh my _god_ Sansa don't." Jeyne shakes her head frantically.

"I would! Let me go!" Sansa stomps on Jeyne's foot, hard, and in the brief second where Jeyne's grip on her loosens, Sansa breaks away.

"Sansa!" Jeyne calls out, but she's already making her way through the congratulatory crowd surrounding the Highgarden Prep teams. She stomps right up to Margaery, where she's laughing with her friends, and slaps her across the face.

It's enough to cut her off mid-laugh. Shocked silence surrounds them as Margaery brings a hand up to touch the blooming red on her cheek, and suddenly everything erupts into sound and motion as Margaery yells and lunges at Sansa, saccharine facade all but forgotten. There are people around her shouting, but it doesn't matter, because Sansa now has a good grip on the front of Margaery's ugly green uniform shirt, and Margaery is hanging on for dear life to Sansa's pontyail and pulling for all she's worth—

And then someone much stronger than Jeyne is pulling her back, and Margaery is being subdued by someone else, and shouts of "hey, hey, break it up," become louder and louder and oh, no, it's that voice. She recognizes it. It's her father.

He's calm, despite the storm around him, exuding a cold presence like winter just decided to come early. The furor dies down with his approach.

"Headmaster Stark," the person holding her addresses. He lets Sansa down and she glances backwards. It's that guard Clegane.

"Explain," her father commands.

"They were fighting," Clegane says simply.

Ned turns his eyes— normally so warm and inviting, but now cold— to Sansa. She shrinks back, ashamed of herself. "Is this true?"

"Yes," Sansa squeaks out.

"Follow me," he barks. "You too." He points to Margaery.

Her gulp is almost audible as she shakily gets to her feet. Sansa feels the same.

***

Ned sighs. "I am very, very disappointed in the both of you."

"She started it," Margaery quietly offers.

"After _you_ stole our routine—"

"You didn't need to _assault_ me—"

"That's plagiarism! Or— or something! You should get kicked off!"

" _Enough_." Both girls immediately quiet at Ned's stern voice. He sighs again, bringing both hands to his head to massage his temples. "I didn't ask who started it, and I didn't ask why it was started," he says after a short pause. "I only want to know it won't happen again. Or you will _both_ be kicked off."

"It won't," the two agree simultaneously, then shoot each other a glare for having the audacity to speak at the same time as the other. Ned shakes his head. _Children_. He doesn't know where he finds the patience for this job.

"Go," he commands weakly, suddenly exhausted.

"That's it?" Sansa asks warily. "Nothing else?"

"Both of you report to Coach Lannister's office immediately. She will ready your punishment."

Sansa hangs her head. Of course they wouldn't get off that easily.

***

Coach Lannister is much less calm than Ned was. She is standing up when they enter her office, and before the door has even shut, she begins her tirade.

"Listen, you little brats. All I want to do is go home and have a nice hot bath, but where am I? I am still stuck at school because of _you_. So if you don't do exactly as I say, I swear, I will personally make sure that both of you are expelled. Am I clear?"

"Yes," they both say.

"Good. Follow me."

She leads them up the stairs, to a classroom at the top of the building. Sansa recognizes it as the Home Ec room. She's nervous, unsure of where this punishment is going— will they be made to scrub the floors? Sit inside and write lines until midnight?

As soon as they step inside, however, Coach Lannister blocks the door. "Alright girls. There's a washroom in the corner, so you should be fine. I hope you have a good night," she says coolly.

"You're not just leaving us here, are you?" Margaery asks incredulously.

"I am."

"You can't do this! My grandmother—"

"Don't think for one second that being the heiress to your stuck-up school affords you any special privilege," Lannister hisses. "Your grandmother agreed to this."

Sansa giggles. Margaery gapes.

"And _you_ ," she spits out, spinning to face Sansa.  "I'd expected better from you. One more incident like this and you are off the team, do you understand?"

Sansa flinches, managing a nod.

"Alright. Your punishment will end tomorrow morning. If I see any new bruises or scratches on either of you, you'd better start looking for new schools to enroll in. Goodnight, ladies."

"Wait!" Margaery protests. "What if there's an emergency? A fire?"

Lannister smiles. "You'd better hope there isn't." With that, she steps out and locks the door behind her.

***

The first thing Sansa does, of course, is test the door. It doesn't budge, and, being made of solid mahogany as it is, it's unlikely to. The next thing she does is look for a light switch. The room is awash with bright fluorescent light that would make it near impossible to sleep. Not that it would be possible to in any case— there's nothing remotely comfortable in the room, only hard wooden tables and unforgiving blue plastic chairs.

"This is all _your_ fault," Sansa snaps as soon as she's finished examining their situation. Margaery doesn't respond. She has sunken down into one of the empty chairs. Her head is lowered, shoulders slumped.

"Tyrell?" Sansa asks. She still doesn't respond.

"Margaery?" she tries.

"My grandmother is going to be so mad," Margaery moans. She sounds like she's... crying?

"Listen... I— I'm sorry," Sansa ventures.

Margaery instantly springs up. "Knew I could get you to say sorry." She winks.

"Oh my god, you're a total bitch, you know that?" Sansa shrieks. She reaches out to hit Margaery, and as soon as her palm connects to Margaery's arm she screams.

"Get off me! Is this what they teach you at this dyke school of yours? To assault other girls?" Margaery backs up to the corner of the room.

Sansa freezes, unsure of what to do. All her instincts tell her to go after Margaery. Her fists are clenched and she wants so badly for them to connect with Margaery's face. But doing so would be playing right in her hands. Instead, she screams in frustration and grabs the nearest book, hurling it at Margaery. It misses by a hair, slamming against the wall behind her.

"Ugh! So violent. I knew same-sex schooling was a problem," Margaery mutters, making a show of dusting off her shoulder.

Sansa fumes. "You think you're _so_ edgy and _so_ cool with your stupid undercut and your co-ed prep school, huh? What's wrong with an all-girls' school? At least it means I'm not a slut like you, giving boys handjobs in the middle of class," Sansa retorts.

Margaery reddens. "That was a— that was just a rumor!" she splutters.

Sansa smirks, having finally gained the upper hand, and advances towards Margaery. "Oh, yeah? And you sucking off half the football team in the locker rooms, that's a rumor too?"

"No! I mean, yes! I mean, shut up!" Margaery screams, and she shoves Sansa away roughly. Sansa kicks her in the shin, and Margaery falls to the ground, but not before grabbing for whatever she can find purchase on— which just so happens to be the front of Sansa's cheer uniform. Sansa has no time to react before Margaery hits the floor, taking Sansa with her— and then they're met with a sickening ripping sound.

For a second, Sansa just looks at Margaery. She lets go of Sansa, throwing her hands up as if to say "not guilty." But as soon as she lets go, the shirt that Margaery was holding onto just falls off Sansa's body, leaving her clad only in the white-and-silver striped skirt of her uniform and, embarrassingly, her matching bra. Instinctively, she brings her hands up to cover her exposed chest, and stares down at her shirt- sitting on the floor, ripped cleanly at the side seam.

"Coach is gonna kill me," Sansa whispers, horrified.

"Shit. _Shit_ ," Margaery curses under her breath.

Sansa picks up her shirt to examine the damage. Margaery looks on, wringing her hands in guilt. "I— I'll pay for a replacement—"

"That's not the issue," Sansa snaps. "If Coach knows we were fighting..." she trails off, leaving the implications to settle in. The color drains from Margaery's face.

" _Oh,_ " she breathes.

"Yeah," Sansa says.

Margaery is still for a second, and then she's on her feet, opening drawers and rifling through cabinets.

"What are you doing?" Sansa asks after a few minutes. Not that she's curious, or anything. Margaery's just making a racket, and it's annoying.

Margaery continues to search. "Maybe there's some tape here or staples— maybe if we fix it, she won't notice..."

Sansa perks up, realization dawning on her. "This is Home Ec!"

"Home Ec? So what? That's... oh... a sewing kit?"

"The cabinets. Top left one. It should be there."

Margaery finally spots it, way in the corner and at the very top. Sansa knows from experience how high it is, and though she's a little taller, she won't offer her hand in help. Besides, she's enjoying watching Margaery struggle- straining and stretching so hard that her skirt rides up and Sansa can see her underwear, golden with tiny white roses stitched on.

Finally, Margaery manages to fetch the elusive sewing kit and thrusts it roughly into Sansa's hands. "There."

Sansa accepts it without thanks and lays her shirt out on a table to assess the damage. There's no other damage except on the seam, but it'll be hard to fix without some frame of reference. "I won't be able to sew this without messing up the shape," she complains aloud. "At best, I'll make it look like a square, and at worst, I'll just totally fuck it up."

"Are you that incompetent with a needle and thread? Here, give it to me." Margaery rolls her eyes. "Put your shirt on. I'll do it."

Sansa's pride makes her want to tell Margaery to fuck off, but her fear of Coach Lannister's wrath trumps even that, so she reluctantly hands Margaery the kit and shrugs on her damaged shirt as best she can.

"Sit on the table," Margaery commands, and Sansa hoists herself up, positioning the torn side of her shirt to where Margaery is sitting. She lifts an arm over her head to allow her access. To her merit, Margaery works efficiently. She has deft fingers. Sansa watches the motion of her hands, repetitive and calming. She can feel Margaery's hot breath on her armpit and feel the occasional brush against her skin.  Sansa is struck with the revelation that this is the closest they've been without fighting and it's almost... nice.

Her thoughts are interrupted when Margaery's stomach growls.

"Hungry?" Sansa teases. She remembers the stash of Oreos she's got behind a false bottom in one of the drawers, hidden there to protect it from the greedy hands of other students now that the head chef is going through a health nut phase and all they're serving in the cafeteria is organic vegan food. She supposes they'd be put to much better use by eating them now— but what is she saying? Like hell she's going to share them with Margaery.

"I skipped dinner," Margaery admits. "And lunch," she adds. "And... breakfast." She stares resolutely at her work, never looking up to meet Sansa's questioning eyes. But she flushes, deep red, so Sansa knows _she_ knows that Sansa's eyes are on her.

Sansa bites her lip, not wanting to say anything, but the question bursts forth from her lips before she can stop herself. "Why?"

Margaery shakes her head, as if disbelieving that she's actually saying this. "Have to fit into my uniform somehow, right, Stark?" she murmurs. She never stops working, but there's an almost imperceptible tremble to her fingers now.

"You shouldn't do that," Sansa whispers.

"I know, alright?" Margaery snaps. This time, she actually stops. "You can finish this stupid thing yourself. I've helped you out enough." She slams the needle onto the table with a little _clink_.

"Have it your way," Sansa mutters, taking off her shirt again to finish the task. When she's managed to maneuver out of it without damaging it further, she glances at Margaery, who appears to be watching her. "What are you looking at? Pervert."

Margaery ignores the jibe. "You might want to sew outwards, now. That way the waist is more cinched and fitted."

Sansa lays out the shirt on the table— she's right. "Alright," she says, not willing to say thank you. Margaery is silent for a long time, and when Sansa looks up again, she's still watching her.

"What's your excuse now?" Sansa mutters.

"You're just the most interesting thing in this room right now. Don't take that as a compliment. That's not saying much."

Sansa sighs. "I've got cookies, if you want."

"What?" Margaery sounds confused.

"Cookies. Oreos. Third drawer from the right. There's a false bottom." She points with her chin, hands otherwise occupied with the sewing.

She hears rustling and then a small, satisfied breath of success when Margaery's found it. The next thing Sansa knows, Margaery is sitting on the table next to her shirt, chomping away at the Oreos.

"Can you move? You're blocking the light," Sansa says, annoyed.

"Don't you want one?" Margaery asks playfully.

"Kind of occupied here," Sansa replies, raising her eyebrows and glancing down at the shirt in emphasis.

"Just look up. Here, open your mouth."

Sansa doesn't know why she does it. Maybe because she's a little hungry, too, or because she's under stress, or really exhausted, or a little bit of everything. But she does, allowing Margaery to feed her an Oreo. The absurdity of the situation suddenly hits her full-force and she starts giggling.

"Wha's funny?" Margaery asks through a mouthful of cookie.

"Nothing, nothing. This is just— it's so crazy." Sansa continues to giggle, and Margaery's lip twitches upwards into a smile. Soon both of them have devolved into a fit of laughter, laughing at everything— at themselves, at each other, at the series of events that have led them to be in this situation, Sansa topless and being hand-fed cookies by her mortal enemy.

"Want another?" Margaery asks through the fit of giggles.

"Sure." Sansa grins and opens her mouth wide. Margaery reaches down and shoves it into her mouth, whole, and even though it leaves Sansa spluttering she's not even mad. She just continues to giggle.

"Hey," Margaery interrupts. "You've, uh, got some icing..." She motions to the corner of Sansa's mouth.

"Hmm?" Sansa puts down her sewing for a second to wipe her mouth with the back of her hand.

"No, no, the other side."

"Here?"

"No— no, here— let me..." Margaery leans down, closer to Sansa's face, and places one hand on her cheek to steady her as she gently runs a thumb across Sansa's bottom lip.

Neither of them are giggling now.

In fact, Margaery seems to be leaning in. So Sansa leans in, too. Her eyes are fluttering shut, lips slightly parted, Sansa can _taste_ what's about to happen— and then she feels a sharp sting on her cheek. Margaery _slapped_ her!

"Revenge," is all she says, smiling.

Sansa could— oh my god, she could slap her back twice as hard, she could punch her in the face like she's been itching to do all night, she could wipe that smug grin off of her face in so many different ways— but instead she finds herself doing so by grabbing the neck of Margaery's cheer uniform and pulling her into a brutal kiss that threatens to knock Margaery right off of the table.

For a split second, Sansa is worried that she's gone too far, but then both of Margaery's hands come up to Sansa's cheeks, holding her there like she never wants her to stop. Sansa runs her free hand up one side of Margaery's face, feeling the scratchy close-cropped hair that's there, runs her hand back further to encircle her neck and grab a fistful of longer hair to hold onto. There's a sick glee in it, Sansa thinks. A year ago, she was pulling Margaery's hair for entirely different reasons.

Margaery finally breaks away, panting hard, and Sansa dares to open her eyes. Margaery's pupils are blown so big that the blue of her iris is almost obscured. Her lips are reddened and her cheeks are flushed and she looks so beautiful and smells like roses.

Sansa jumps up onto the table, kicking aside the now-forgotten sewing project, and before she can even turn her head Margaery is pushing Sansa backwards to lie on the desk. Sansa's ponytail has come undone somehow, so that her hair fans out behind her, framing her beautifully against the dark wood of the desk. Margaery pulls away briefly to just— _experience_ it, but Sansa's breathy moans reel her back in. She straddles Sansa and presses their bodies flush, lips to lips, arms to arms.

Sansa fumbles beneath her and it takes Margaery a second to realize that she's unclasping her bra. And who is she to reject that invitation? The bra, like the shirt, is tossed to the floor and forgotten. Margaery kisses Sansa's lips once more, and then begins her descent down Sansa's skin— first to her neck, then to her collar, and finally, to the soft swell of her breast. Sansa gasps louder with every kiss, and squeals when Margaery begins to suck.

"Don't," Sansa protests breathily. "Not there. Not where Coach can see."

"Lower, then?" Margaery asks. Sansa nods, blushing deeply.

The irony is not lost on Margaery. She's bruising Sansa now, but in a way she hadn't ever expected. Her mouth meets Sansa's pale skin, and when it parts she's left a smarting red mark that Margaery knows will stay for days. She leaves another, and another, and another. Finally, Sansa pushes her off, making Margaery sit back up.

"Take it off," she says, pulling at Margaery's uniform. "I want to see you."

That is, by far, the hottest thing that has ever been said to Margaery— who, despite the rumors, is still a virgin. That's not a fact she'd let slip to Sansa, though, but there is a strange moment of wonder as Margaery sheds her shirt and bra and realizes that Sansa will be the first person to see her this way.

Her skirt is gone next, and Sansa's follows soon after.

"I don't know if I want to fuck you or if I want you to fuck me," Sansa admits quietly, and a shiver of arousal courses down Margaery's spine. She arches her back, and Sansa holds her hands out to steady her.

God, Sansa thinks, she's beautiful— small pink nipples and small pale breasts, the slight curve of her waist, the lithe muscle betraying hours spent practicing flips and jumps and handstands.

"You look..." she begins, but doesn't know how to continue.

"Beautiful? Stunning? Drop-dead gorgeous?" Margaery supplies.

"...healthy," Sansa finishes.

The implications hang heavy in the air. "I eat," Margaery says, "just sometimes not on game days."

Sansa bites her lip, sorry to have brought up the topic and worried that she's ruined the mood, but Margaery smiles. "Though I'd have some incentive to if you'd feed me," she says, and she presses her lips to Sansa's once more. Sansa's hands trail along Margaery's body, lingering at her breasts to cup them and squeeze her nipples, then continuing to trace a path down until she's pushing at the gold-and -white panties that she'd caught flashes of earlier.

Underneath, Sansa feels the same prickliness as the shaved hair on Margaery's head. It's the same, she realizes. Shaved, so that there's nothing to stop her from slipping her hand lower and finding out how _wet_ Margaery is. When Sansa touches her, she breaks their kiss for a moment to moan, loud and long, before resuming with even more fervor than before. Sansa rubs at her clit, and Margaery's moans get louder and longer and she eventually has to break their kiss completely.

Sansa uses the opportunity to gently lift Margaery off, setting her so that her legs dangle over the table. For a second, Margaery looks confused, and then Sansa is off the table, kneeling in front of her, sliding her underwear down her legs so as to have full access to the wetness between her thighs.

Margaery gasps the first time Sansa licks, tongue inexperienced but eager. She's never done this before, but from the first taste she is addicted. Margaery smells good even down there, something like flowers and the heady scent of sex. Sansa tastes it, and she tastes sweat, and she wants more, licking greedily as Margaery moans above her.

She never would have dreamed of this, of hearing Margaery moan in pleasure instead of pain and of enjoying every second, never would stop to think of how Margaery's delicate hands would feel fisted in her hair, how she would look squirming above her. But now that she has it...

Sansa pushes a finger inside Margaery, and she _screams_. Sansa adds another, and another, and fucks her like that, mouth sucking at her clit and fingers crooking inside of her, and it doesn't _matter_ that Margaery is that stuck up Highgarden bitch and Sansa is that prissy Stark heiress, because Margaery is a trembling, writhing mess, chanting "Sansa, Sansa, _Sansa_ " as she comes, bearing down so hard on Sansa's fingers that she fears them trapped, toes curling as her legs drape over Sansa's back, and nothing matters but Margaery's earth-shattering orgasm and the privilege she has bestowed on Sansa of getting to ride it out with her.

Sansa is entirely unprepared for what Margaery does next, pulling Sansa up by the hair to kiss her roughly. And soon, Margaery sits her down in the same spot she just was— and dips her head down to return the favor.

But unlike Sansa, she doesn't stop after one. Sansa comes three times that night, each more intense than the last, until she is shaking in Margaery's arms, the both of them wrapped up in each other with Margaery whispering soothing words into her ear. Sansa swears she hears "I'm sorry for stealing your routine," but then again, perhaps she imagined it.

***

Sansa blinks awake to the sounds of footsteps echoing in the large stone hallway. It takes a second to adjust her bleary vision, but as she rubs her eyes it becomes increasingly evident that morning has come long ago. Yellow light floods the room, entering through the windows, just shy of reaching her eyes.

She springs into action with a frantic "Margery!" She locates her panties and slides them on, pulling up her skirt over it as fast as she can. Margaery, beginning to wake, is wide-eyed and panicked as she scrambles for her own uniform. Sansa just barely manages to slip on her shirt before there's a knock on the door.

"Girls?" someone calls out. It's her father.

And it's only now that Sansa remembers, with a horrified sense of realization, that she never finished sewing her shirt back up completely. Margaery follows her eyes and is frozen, too.

"Girls," he calls again, louder.

"Coming," Sansa yells back, trying her best to sound sleepy when she's as alert as ever.

"Quick," Margaery hisses, pulling Sansa to her side, hands around her shoulder, obscuring the unfinished needlework by pressing their bodies as close as possible. Sansa follows suit, draping her arm around Margaery's shoulder as well.

There's a click of the lock, and the door is opened. "Headmaster Stark. Coach Lannister," Margaery addresses both politely.

The two look wary and unsure when they see Sansa and Margaery so close. Sansa only tightens her hold on Margaery's shoulder.

"I'm going to speak for both of us and say this looks very fishy," Lannister says. "You don't need to try so hard to convince us you're best friends now.  It's okay if you spent the entire night avoiding each other on opposite sides of the room."

Sansa bites her lip to stifle a giggle because that couldn't be further from the truth. She hopes it looks like apprehension.

"We _are_ best friends now, though," Margaery pipes up.

Coach Lannister rolls her eyes and looks at Ned, who only shrugs. "Let them pretend," he says. "We'll see how long they can keep it up."

All Margaery and Sansa can do is share a grin behind their backs as they follow them out.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know the first thing about sewing, sorry. Come to think of it, I don't actually know the first thing about cheerleaders, either.
> 
> This was super fun to write regardless.


End file.
